“What do you mean, ‘our’ countries? You know I haven't got a country, and probably never will.” Rick looked at Sam, who shrugged wordlessly. “And as for you, the last time I looked, France was cut in two like a day-old baguette. Half of it is being run directly from Berlin, and the other half only pretends not to be. In other words,” he concluded, “neither of us has a country, at least until we get the Germans out of Paris.”
“Vive la France,” said Renault.
“Get on with it. Time is one thing we don't have.”
“This is the way things seem to stand,” began Renault, wondering how much of the story to tell. It was not a question of lying, exactly, but rather of editing judiciously and hoping the excised bits didn't come back to haunt him. “It should come as no surprise to you that the RÉsistance does not entirely trust the British. Part of that distrust is habitual, of course, but part of it has to do with our different war aims. For Britain, victory will have been achieved by defeating Hitler. What happens to France makes no difference to the English. Indeed, we suspect the restoration of la gloire de la France to be very low on Mr. Churchill's agenda.
“You're probably right about that,” agreed Rick.
Renault nodded appreciatively.“Monsieur le General, though, sees things a bit differently,” he continued. “For him the restoration of French honor and French glory is paramount. When Germany is defeated, France must and shall be the strongest Continental power. No other outcome would be acceptable.”
“It's no skin off my nose,” said Rick. “In fact, Sam and I were just reminiscing about Paris in the good old days before you walked in, weren't we, Sam?”
“If that's what you call it,” said Sam.
“So what's the problem?” Rick asked.
“The problem,” replied Renault, “is that any operations being run under the auspices of British Intelligence in central Europe are very much in the French interest as well. Which is why agents of the RÉsistance have been shadowing all known MI-six operatives in London.”
Rick laughed. “In other words, your side is spying on the very men who are trying to boot the Germans off the Champs-ÉlysÉes and back to Unter den Linden.”
“You could put it that way,” Renault admitted.
“Sounds like the old days in New York,” muttered Sam.
“What do you Frenchies say, Louie:plus Ça change?”
“Ricky, I’m disappointed in you,” said Renault. “After all your time in France and in Casablanca, your French accent leaves much to be desired.”
“Merci, I’m sure,” said Rick.
Despite the banter, Renault began to fidget. Divided loyalties were certainly something to which he was no stranger, but he preferred his loyalties to be truly divided and not bumping up against each other like this. “My, look at the time,” he exclaimed, rising. “I’m afraid I’ve been indiscreet enough to have made a small assignation for this afternoon. The Savoy, for tea.”
Rick smiled, more a grimace than an expression of pleasure. “And scones, no doubt.”
“If they should present themselves,” Renault replied with a slight leer. “One never knows.”
“More information, Louie. We need more information,” said Rick as he walked away.
Outside on the street, Renault hailed a taxi and reflected on events. His friend was showing an alarming tendency toward moral scruples in the aftermath of his reunion with Ilsa Lund in Casablanca. But women made men do strange things, and besides, nobody was perfect.
He was making progress, however. Although some members of the Resistance understandably were skeptical of his recent conversion to the cause of liberation, his complicity in the death of Major Strasser and his dramatic exit from Casablanca had convinced them of his bona fides. You couldn't get much better than murdering a Gestapo officer and destroying a car full of his henchmen, and while Renault could not truthfully be said to have done either, the mere association with the deed was enough.
News of Victor Laszlo's arrival in London had not escaped the Resistance, and when they discovered that Renault had known Laszlo in Casablanca—indeed, had helped the freedom fighter escape—a mission had presented itself.
“Monsieur Renault, you are more than welcome to join us,” the Underground leader, who went by the nom de guerre of Raoul, had said. “With your knowledge of the activities of the Vichy criminals in North Africa, you have already brought us valuable information. You will no doubt be pleased to know that several of the traitors have already paid with their lives; our reach is long, and our vengeance is terrible.”
Raoul sucked deeply on an expiring Gauloises. He wore his hair long, in the fashion of Rive Gauche intellectuals, and Renault could easily picture him sitting in Le Pro-cope, chain-smoking and arguing with Jean-Paul Sartre. Then he remembered that Raoul was an expert shot and a master bomb maker; he doubted if the same could be said of Sartre.
“Victor Laszlo is a mystery to us,” said Raoul. “We know of him and his work, of course. Laszlo's treatment at the hands of the Germans in Mauthausen, and his daring escape, have made him even more admired—and more feared by the Nazis. It is imperative that we make contact with him before the Germans find him.”
“For his sake or for ours?” asked Renault.
“What do you think?” Raoul replied. “There are rumors that the Czechs, with the active cooperation of British Intelligence, are planning a major operation—a spectacular act of terrorism or sabotage or murder that will make the world sit up and take notice of them. Of course, such a coup de thÉâtre would have the most serious repercussions for all the Underground movements.” He stopped long enough to catch his breath. “The problem is, we don't know what it is.”
With a sweeping, violent gesture, he struck a match against the wall. It burst into flame, and he lit up. “Naturally, we wish our brothers in the conflict against Hitler well. But there must be limits even to a concept as dear to French hearts as fraternitÉ.”
Raoul began to pace around the room, which was the second floor of a Victorian-era warehouse down by the docks. Night after night the area was being heavily bombed by the Luftwaffe, but Raoul hardly seemed to notice, much less care.
“What do you mean?” asked Renault.
Raoul snorted. “The world is a compassionate place, but even compassion has limits. One beggar draws the empathy of the people; a dozen beggars inspire only revulsion and contempt. In Europe today we have more than our share of beggars—each of the countries conquered and occupied by the Germans. Who knows, soon the Soviet Union and perhaps even England will join their ranks.” From his demeanor, Raoul did not appear to think that England under the Nazi boot would be especially tragic.
“But there can be only one Underground in Europe. Only one movement upon which all free eyes and ears are fixed. One movement toward which the sympathy of the world naturally flows. And that one must and shall be French.Vive la RÉsistance!”
“Vive la RÉsistance!” echoed Renault.
Raoul stopped long enough to take a sip from a small glass of Bordeaux. “Thus it is imperative that we find out what the Czechs are planning. It may be that what they are considering will not affect us in the slightest. On the other hand, it may be something that could seriously compromise operations of our own.”
“I thought we had a common enemy,” Renault objected.
“A common enemy, yes,” said Raoul. “But not common goals. The shape of Europe after Hitler is something that concerns all of us—but not all of us see it in exactly the same way.” Raoul stubbed out his Gauloises and immediately lit another. “What may happen to Poland or Czechoslovakia or even England is of no concern to us. The important thing is to ensure the future of France. I need not remind you that the needs and the glory of France come before all others,n'est-ce pas?”
“Of course,” Renault agreed.
“Very well, then,” said Raoul. “You have your task.
Find out about this Laszlo. What is he up to? What are the Czechs planning? If yo
u know the man as well as you claim, this should not present a problem. We would even expect you to be able to infiltrate the operation to a certain extent. Such information, of course, would be invaluable, and your services would be greatly rewarded by France in the person of the General himself.”
Abruptly Raoul embraced Renault and kissed him twice on both cheeks. Then he stepped back and stared at him. “On the other hand, if you should fail in this task, it would say to us that your profession of faith in the mission of the General is a fraud, and that perhaps you are in fact still an agent of Vichy, sent to penetrate us.” Raoul's eyes were little black lumps of cold, hard coal. “And in that event, your usefulness to our cause would perforce be at an end. Do I make myself clear?”
Renault swallowed hard. “Perfectly,” he said.
“Good,” said Raoul. “Here is the number of the house in South Kensington where a man answering Victor Laszlo's description was sighted yesterday.” He wrote it on a piece of paper and handed it to Renault.
“Or perhaps I should say a woman answering Mlle. Lund's description. It seems our man was far more taken with the lady.”
“I would expect nothing less from a Frenchman,” said Renault.
“Unless that Frenchman's penchant for women supersedes his duty to his country.” With that, Raoul dismissed him.
Louis Renault intended to learn exactly where Victor Laszlo was, and what he was planning, as soon as possible. Renault had always believed that staying alive ought to be one's first priority, so that one might enjoy life's second and third priorities. For the moment, it seemed that, like Raoul, he had his priorities backward.
“Where did you say that was again, gov'nor?” asked the driver.
“Number Forty-two Clareville Street,” said Renault.
CHAPTER NINE
For a long time after Renault left, Rick remained sunk in his chair and deep in thought.
“What's the matter, boss?” asked Sam, as if he didn't know. He'd seen these reveries before. “I thought you didn't like thinkin’ about old times.”
“Sometimes the old times think about you,” said Rick.
He started to pick up the newspaper, then remembered that for some strange reason, the British newspapers resolutely refused to cover baseball.
He longed for something to do, some activity that would help bring him closer to his goal of finding Ilsa. This inactivity was driving him crazy. He plucked her note from his pocket and read it for the thousandth time: “To London.” “British Intelligence.”“Der Henker(?).” “Danger.” “Prague.” “Come quickly.”
He had spent the last month puzzling over it. The London part he understood well enough; here they were. “British Intelligence” was self-evident, as were “Danger” and “Come quickly.” But who was der Henker? The word, he knew, meant “executioner,” but what else? And what did Prague have to do with anything? Although, as he well knew, Victor Laszlo was Czech… .
“Sam,” he said, “who's der Henker?”
“You got me, boss.”
Rick was disappointed. He had relied on Sam for so long that he was caught up short whenever Sam didn't know something. He expected Sam to know everything.
He rose from his chair. Passivity had always galled him.
A walk around London, even a London still reeling from the almost nightly bombing runs of the Luftwaffe, was better than sitting here. It would be safe enough: thanks to the pioneering British work with radar, the Germans flew only at night.
“Where we goin’?” asked Sam, pulling on his coat.
“Someplace I haven't been in years,” replied Rick. “The library.”
They taxied across London—down Dover Street to Piccadilly, across Piccadilly Circus to Leicester Square, up Charing Cross Road and into Great Russell Street— dodging the debris of the latest bombing. Although the Germans’ main target was the East End docks, the heart of the English shipping industry, their bombers were either too inexperienced or too scared to drop their payloads with any particular accuracy. The witheringly accurate British antiaircraft fire, as well as the bravery and professionalism of the Royal Air Force pilots, inflicted such heavy losses on the Nazi bombers that the German boys were only too happy to sight London, release their bombs, and get the hell out of there as fast as they could.
As they passed through Leicester Square, Rick and Sam observed that London's pleasure district was undaunted; the dance halls were full and the cinemas were running. Rick noticed that the Astor was playing High Sierra. “STARRING HUMPHREY BOGART AND IDA LUPINO. DIRECTED BY RAOUL WALSH,” proclaimed the marquee. Rick could take or leave the movies. He much preferred the theater, especially musicals.
The British Museum and British Library squatted astride Russell Square. “You ever been to a museum, Sam?” Rick asked as they climbed the stairs.
“No, sir,” replied Sam. “Never had no time. Wanted to, but something always got in the way.”
“Bergman's pool hall?” said Rick. Bergman's was a Harlem institution, where Rick himself had hustled some change in the old days.
“No, sir,” Sam corrected. “Bergman's was in the white part of town then. Or did you forget?”
“Try not to remind me,” said Rick, pulling open the huge door.
Their footfalls echoed across the marble as they walked. Rick walked boldly up to a uniformed guard.
“Anybody speak foreign languages around here?” he inquired.
The guard didn't miss a beat. “I’m quite sure many people do, sir,” he answered.
“Yeah, well then, name one,” said Rick. At times like this his lack of formal education embarrassed him.
“Mr. Robbins would be your man, sir,” said the guard. “Shall I ring him for you?”
“That would be nice,” said Rick.
Five minutes later Rick and Sam were being ushered into the cramped offices of Jonathan Robbins, assistant curator of ancient languages.
“Mr. Blaine,” said Robbins, pumping Rick's hand enthusiastically. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got a question for you,” said Rick. “How many languages do you speak?”
“How many would you like?” answered Robbins with gusto. The only time the British ever seemed to show any emotion, thought Rick, was when they were dealing with total strangers about something absolutely impersonal and irrelevant. “I’m fluent in ancient Egyptian, ancient Greek, Sumerian, Sanskrit, and Akkadian. I’m still working on Etruscan, though.” He chuckled. “Aren't we all?”
“Terrific,” said Rick. Somehow he was willing to bet Robbins's linguistic proficiency did not include Yiddish. “Does this mean anything to you?” He thrust a piece of paper at Robbins, on which he had written the word “Henker.”
Robbins glanced at it. “How rude of me,” he remarked. “Won't you both please sit down? I’m sorry this office is so cramped,” he said, “but, money, you know …”
“Money I know,” agreed Rick. “How much will I owe you?”
Robbins laughed. “Oh, there's no bother about that,” he assured Rick. “We are a public trust here, the national library of Great Britain, an institution devoted to the good of all. I’ll give you the answer to your question for free.” He took a breath.“Der Henker, masculine, means ‘the hangman’ in German. Or ‘executioner.’ Someone whose acquaintance one fondly hopes never to make.”
“I know that,” said Rick. “But who might it refer to?”
Robbins shook his head. “Can't think of anybody in particular,” he said. His mind raced back through the centuries. Old German was not exactly his field, but he prided himself on being able to stand in with all but the best scholars in any discussion of Anglo-Norman poetry of the twelfth century. “No,” he said after a time. “I’ve mentally run down everyone from Charlemagne to Bismarck and can't come up with a thing. Sorry.”
Rick was ready to go, but Sam held him back. “I think what Mr. Rick means is anything more or less today.”
Robbins seemed astonished by the very idea o
f contemporaneousness. “You mean in our own time?”
“That's exactly what I mean,” said Rick.
“You mean besides Reinhard Heydrich?” Robbins asked.
“Reinhard who?” asked Rick.
“Heydrich. The new Protector of Bohemia and Moravia. They call him der Henker.”
That must be it! Rick tried to contain his excitement. “Where can I find out more about this guy?” he asked.
Robbins seemed surprised. “Why, right here, Mr. Blaine,” he replied. “We are, after all, a library.”
“Point me,” said Rick, rising.
Robbins gave them his card, on the back of which he had scribbled some instructions. “Just show this to the librarian,” he told Rick. “He'll help you.” On the back of the card, Rick noted, Robbins had written the words “Reinhard Heydrich—recent cuttings.” In the reading room, Rick duly handed Robbins's card to a librarian named Fullerton, a fastidious, even prissy, man in a houndstooth jacket. Fullerton studied it for a moment, as if it were a scientific specimen from another part of the museum. “Follow me, please. Oh, and ask your man to wait outside. The reading room is for those doing research only.”
Rick was about to say something when Sam put a hand on his arm. “I’ll be downstairs, boss,” he said. “Maybe I can find a good book somewhere.”
Fullerton led Rick into a private chamber and left him there. Ten minutes later he was back with a pile of newspaper clippings. Rick picked up the first one, which was also the most recent.
HEYDRICH ANNOUNCES LIMITED RATIONING IN BOHEMIA, read the headline in the Times.
The gist of it was that Reinhard Tristan Eugen Heydrich, the recently appointed Protector of Bohemia and Moravia, had issued a series of new regulations regarding ration cards for food and clothing on a productivity basis. Work or starve: it was a typically German idea. The Czech people were responding; after an initial period of resistance, which Heydrich had put down brutally, they had grudgingly come to a truce with their Nazi overlords. Writing from London, the Times correspondent was of the opinion that the Czech resistance to Hitler was waning and that the order imposed by the Germans was, in the eyes of many Czechs, preferable to the relative anarchy they had experienced in their brief experiment with democracy under Masaryk and Beneš]. For that they had to thank der Henker: Reinhard Heydrich, the Hangman of Prague.
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